Don’t say this name, PLEASE!!!

Hello lovely people. This is my/ our melbourne international comedy festival show. We like it. Audiences are having an absolute ball. The show is a beautiful explosion of diamond encrusted joy. But social media hates us. And has banned us.  Our theory is that Zuckerberg was called a dickhead a lot at school. Anyways... this is us. Hopefully we’ve circumnavigated the algorithm of lack of genuine intelligence and/ or continued to fail :) 

https://www.comedyfestival.com.au/2018/shows/two-little-dickheads

Seriously Trump?

Oh great Trump was in the news again today. Can you believe he did that thing he did? Yes THAT! 

Now he’s going to show up in conversation, and I’ll have to talk about him. And oh yes, I just LOVE talking about Trump. Eye roll. 

I was chatting about him with a family member last week and it lead to us getting into a fist fight, and now this family member has one human eye and one pig eye. 

I mean he had the pig eye before the fight too, miracle surgery actually, but it’s hard to punch someone with a pig eye, because bacon smelling juice pops out with every blow, and you get that on your shirt, and next thing you know hamburgers are following you around saying ‘hey that’s mine dick’ and you’re like, ‘I didn’t steal your bacon, I swear’ and they’re like ‘then why do you smell of bacon’ and you’re like ‘because I punched a guy with a pig eye’ and the hamburger is like ‘really plausible dick, only an asshole would punch a pig eyed man!’ 

And he’s right. I don’t like punching anyone, but Trump just riles people up, and the thing was this family member and I agreed, Trumps ties are too long, depending on the day your referencing, sometimes he’s not even wearing ties, fuckin’ Trump. How is anyone supposed to have a civil in-depth discussion on male business fashion if he won’t even wear a too long tie everyday?  Especially when you’re talking to someone who can’t show their sarcasm because they can’t physically eye roll with a pig eye! Fuck you Trump! 

Now because of you I have a hamburger pacing up and down outside my house, and you call the cops and they just say ‘if he bites you, just bite him back’ and I’m like ‘yeah right, he doesn’t even have bacon, that’s not the most delicious type of burger!’ 

Aaggh. News! 

Hearts for sale

Frankly I’m sick of the arguing.

I HATE arguing.

Plus it makes me sick.

And I HATE being sick. 

So I’ll just settle it once and for all. 

Which is a better term than ‘four all’.

Because what if you’re a three? 

Aren’t you still part of ‘all’?

Exactly.

Still. 

Here’s the point you all clamored here to read...

 Flu rockets are BETTER than note pads made out of dried out baby wipes!

Yes they are.

Yes. 

YES they are. 

And I’ll tell you why. 

Soon. 

But first.

Don’t get me wrong. 

Or tong! 

Ha ha. Like I’d use a made up word.

So don’t fucking get me ‘wrong’ got it? 

Because, look, ok, I get it. 

I’m not a moron. 

I know note pads are important. How else would notes be written down?

Except on all the other ways they can be written down. 

Which number the many. 

Possibly even the many, many. 

Which is fun to say. 

Almost as fun as mony, mony. 

Which is a very different saying than money, money.

In that the fact is factual that ‘mony, mony’ includes up to, and as many as TWO words that don’t mean a thing, and therefore don’t exist. 

And that’s something that MATTERS ok? 

Because I just proved the existence of the non-existent. 

So suck on that so called ‘science type sciency type types’. 

You’ve been superseded.

My FAVORITE type of sceded.

And yeah. Baby wipes?

Dried out ones no less? 

How poetically sad. 

I won’t ignore that. 

I CAN’T ignore it. 

Who could? 

The heartless? 

Do they even exist? 

And if so, how come my ‘hearts for sale’ business never took off. 

I mean we sold several dozen hearts. But was it worth the effort it took to have them donated to us by people who’d stumbled across them at drive-thru diners? 

Probably not. Because there just aren’t enough of those any more.

And I hate being sad because of nostalgia. 

It breaks my heart. 

Rendering it worthless.

The point is. 

Flu rockets! 

Flu fucking rockets. 

Those are two words I arbitrarily jammed together to start this essay, so I can argue some moronic crap. 

Or three words if you count the ‘fucking’.

And who wouldn’t? 

So yeah, that matters people.

And things that matter are important.

And importants is something I believe in. 

In fact I often think that nothing is more importants than that! 

Except for maybe REAL Flu Rockets. 

Which I’m pretty sure exist. 

And I’m pretty sure will one day be used in some arguably evil biochemical war, that just did not quite live up to its endemic like horror that we all feared. 

I mean the flu freakin’ sucks and all. 

And yeah it does kill, so don’t fucking underplay it. 

But still, it’s not as bad as say, you know, a enphansema endaplay outbreak rocket.

I mean haven’t we already talked about words that aren’t real! 

Who fucking cares! 

The End.

Ps. This esssay was brought to you by - things that make sense. 

Don’t you hate it? 

Yes you do. 

Fuck sense. 

Who needs it? 

You know what? 

I think we just joined the same page. 

How poetically beautiful. 

WAY better than being sick with the flu! 

Smile. 

Pps. These ramblings are brought to you by ‘editing’. How poetically sad.

Ppps. Ironic smile :) 

Truth so good you could bottle it

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Today was an intriguing day everybody. Woo hoo.

Because, you see, I discovered the truth behind bottle caps!

“Woo hoo. Finally!” I hear you yell, in your beautiful throaty cheers right from your beautifully throaty thoughts.

But it gets even better.  

This truth I’ve discovered was not just the mild truth. No way, no how, I discovered the spicy truth.

“Woo hoo. Fantastical” I hear you squeal, in your beautiful glass shattering whelp, right from your beautifully whelpy brains.

But it get’s even better.

This truth I discovered was not just not the mild truth but also not just the spicy truth, because the level of fire in this spice was super fiery and this fire came in a convenient saucy sauce.

“Woo hoo. Fantabulous” I hear you shriek, in that suddenly brain damagingly piecing way, right from your brain damagingly piecing brains.

You see this isn’t any kind of truth. No no no.

This is the kind of truth that if you drank a bottle of it, you’d want to hope you were filming it for you-tube, or elsewhere in the video sharing interwebs that could be considered similar, and you would damn hope that you’d get a lot of views for drinking that much fiery sauce of truth. And yet you decided to do it on a street corner? Are you mad? Good luck getting lots of views filming it from there. Unless it’s a super busy street corner. Which of course almost all are. God damn traffic!

This is the kind of truth that if you snorted a field of it, you’d want to hope aliens were watching you, readying to attack, only to think “hmmmm, those are some damn strong nostrils, that can snort up a whole field of ANYTHING, and seeing as we are aliens which are made of nothing but wafting freshly baked cookie clouds, maybe we should consider another day for the attack, perhaps when this bad ass motherfucker gets a cold, or at least is on a strict ‘no smelling cookie wafts diet’, which I heard actually is great for shifting weight, just as long as you don’t go near a mall where they have a freshly baked cookie kiosk, and why on earth would you ever visit a mall without one? My god, why on earth indeed. Let’s fuck off to a better planet, this one is fucked. Damn god damn dieters.

THIS is the kind of truth that if you ever even considered filling a pool with it, and then demonstrating your new found love of sitting in a sauna for so long, that you become so dehydrated that your skin become stiff like the skin of a pig that’s been basted over a fire pit for six months, because intruders came and stole the pants of all those at the luau and everyone is starving, but way too self-conscious to eat in front of a group with no pants, and so everyone is desperately attempting to bully their leg hairs into growing into the shape of perfect shorts, and then hope to pretend to be a top half human, bottom half monkey, that’s shaved it’s legs below the knee, in hope of passing itself off as a top half human, first half of bottom half monkey, and bottom half of bottom half human, so it can eat some fucking pig without anyone looking at it weird, and then you hope to take that disgusting dehydrated thick rash you claim is your skin, and dive in and with plans to soak it in said pool, hoping it would then suck up all that sweet, sweet liquid and you could finally be credited with discovering a new way of cramming liquid into a body, and finally one which is dominated by something other than some gross orifice sucking shit up? But are you crazy? As if the lifeguard will let you dive in? There is a clear ‘no diving sign’; do you really think you can get past that kind of epic security? God damn fucking god damn rule sticklers.

“Woo hoo. Fanfuckutabalicous” I hear you bellow, right from the depths of some hollow part of your body which is so seriously deep that you should be worried that your beautiful brain is on tour down there, I mean we all like to see our brains go on tour from time to time, but stay safe please.

That’s right. The bottle cap truth has been found. By me. Right here. Right now. In all it’s glory.

So yeah, BOTTLE CAPS, guess what…

 The truth is, that it turns out, that they go best on… bottles!

Woo hoo. Fabulociticy.

Don’t you just love it when things make perfect sense!

Chapter Three. Unbounded, unless you’re holier than nippy, in which case SUPER bounded

Pinky-Von-Sox and the cave of Squawking Mumbles 

Chapter Three 

Let’s take a quick fact interruption. 

Fact: The Cave of Squawking Mumbles was originally a cheap, unhinged, and low down dirty land edge, which at the time of right before it’s formation, you know, like SUPER baffled people. That is people who saw a land edge, and were told it was a cave, which was baffling, because it was called a cave, and yet rather than being a cave, was actually a land edge.

Of course life fucks with you anytime you think you’ve outsmarted a linguist, and the cave as we know it formed anyway, right at the the tail end of the jumonicathic period. Thus making it older than most dirt, younger than most sand, wetter than most Freemason carved windmills, dryer than a sticky bun made of carpel tunnel syndrome explained through the use of foraged foliage puppetry, and more endothamatic than almost ANY ‘delete all’ function, you’ll find on ANY lounge chair, found near ANY assassination themed endothamitic theme pub, especially those found with a well spread, yet exclusive and special, discount code word, of 'thus'. 

So yeah. 

Fact. The fact we’d found the cave was a fact that was a fact that was beautifully poised to discover that it's very destiny was to end up on the podcast ‘facts you should know’ as SOON as said podcast was invented. Unless it already has been invented. In which case shame on you all. 

Also the podcast ‘let’s take a quick fact break’ is MINE. ANYone try to copy it and fact... I’ll sick the endothamic society on you! Um, YEAH. 

Anyway, it’s been a while since I posted tales from this brilliant, and factual, and more importantly this factually brilliant, true, and brilliantly factual story.

Apologies, let’s get back to it... 

Look at you, you talent rich talent

Great News: According to their ads, you ALWAYS see it first on channel 9 news. 

Yep, that means the 99.99% of times you could have sworn you saw it first on the internet, you were merely having a severe psychotic episode, punctuated with vast and brilliantly accurate psychic visions. Congrats! 

Ice – A poem

Big was the ice block

Really big

A big bloody ice block

And icy was the ice on this big ice block

Really icy

Every part of its iciness was made of ice

And pure was the ice that made it icy

Pure in a the purest ice way ice can be

And blocky was the block on this huge block of ice

Big and blocky

Blocky in a way that can only be achieved with blockhead commitment to blocking out any influence that wasn’t blockiness

Altogether this made for a big block of ice

Really big

Big in iciness

Big in blockiness

And big in block of ice type ice blockiness

Oh yeah, Icy and big was the big ass bitching bad motherfucker of a big ass bitchin’ motherfucking ice block

Later on, there was a puddle

The End

The struggle of the dancing whiff of real - A Poem

'Can you give me an example'? Asked Jeff. 

'Sure. I'll just do all the fucking work as usual!' Responded Cal, in what was clearly a far more tense than exciting exchange. And by that I mean epically tense, and only minusculely exciting. And by minusculely exciting I mean, not at ALL exciting, but hey, at least no one got lit on fire.

Then Cal lit Jeff on fire.

‘Well now you're just taking the piss, that's really unnecessary’ responded Jeff

‘Sorry dude, I just hate when narrators take liberty, it’s just not their place, you know?’ Said Cal. 

‘I do Cal, I do’ replied Jeff. And then they hugged, which put the fire mostly out.

The bit of fire NOT put out burned for another twenty years. Within seven years it had became Holman County’s fifth most visited ‘human on fire’ based tourist attraction. Which helped the town, or at least soften the blow, from their ‘dildo factory on fire’ based financial AND ridicule based issues. I mean who’s idea was it to make dildos out of ground up Christmas lights anyway?

The point is, so yeah! Uh huh. That’s right. STILL want to hate on narrators you small county hating dicks? 

All tied up

Hey team, 

Welcome back, it’s time for our BRAND NEW segment... viewer male!

Please note, yes we did call it viewer male, rather than viewer mail, but not because of any nefarious reasons. It’s just that other shows already do viewer mail and we wanted to be original so we called it viewer male. We’re really creative that way. 

Like we hardly EVER do stuff other shows do. Unless of course there aren’t any words we can substitute that sound exactly the same but are spelled different and mean something different that we can easily explain away as meaning the original way despite not saying that, because we’re being creative rather than intentionally wrong. 

And yes, we know that saying male instead of mail sounds tad exclusive, but we definitely MEAN mail, which is inclusive. So it’s not nefarious.

It’s one of those situations when a word sounds like another word and they have different meanings and then we’ve used the wrong one for creative reasons even though we actually mean the other one. 

We just came up with it. It’s really creative. 

It’s sort of like the regular bit other shows do, called viewer mail, but we spelled male different, for reasons outlined above. This makes it an original idea. And originality is creative. We’re creative here that way.

So here’s our first piece of viewer male (we mean mail). (We’re creative rather than nefarious that way). 

Dear Ok, intriguing, 

The title of your show suggests that you’re some type of show and yet when I come here, it doesn’t matter how long I watch, I seem to only find myself watching words. I can watch your show for hours and hours, and still only see almost exclusively WORDS.

What sort of shit are you playing at? Some sort of ‘word’ shit? That’s some shit shit you’re trying to fling, you shit. Words? Blah, if I wanted to watch those I’d watch the Price Is Right and hope they solve the puzzle quickly. And I NEVER want to watch people solve puzzles quickly, they always act so smug when they do...

‘Oh look at me, I got “The worm was brown” before anyone else did, I’m so clever’. Hey, fuck YOU. Maybe you didn’t get it because you’re clever, maybe it’s because worms ARE brown. Like a greyish brown, but still, brown, especially if they’ve been in dirt, which they ALWAYS have. 

So stick your smug Price Is Right ass right up that wheel you spin. Oh wait, maybe I’m thinking of ‘wheel of fortune’. That’s a pretty good show.  I love when they solve the puzzles quickly. It means less spinning. I hate spinning. It’s why I never get jealous of car wheels. Like NEVER. (I do sometimes get jealous of car glove boxes, I’d love people to think I have gloves in me when in reality I only have a bunch of old paper work and a dried out pen, oh man, THAT would be sweet). 

By the way, it’s spelled ‘mail’ not ‘male’, you shits. And don’t even try to tell us that you KNOW how to spell mail, and then spell it wrong, you nefarious clustermunts. 

Sure it’s very creative, but why not be creative in a different way? You know, like dying a worm yellow. Ha ha, it’d be like, “look 

at that worm, it’s all yellow. That’s not brown!” Lol. 

Your favorite viewer, 

Cassandra Cassington 

So that was viewer male (it’s really mail, but we spelled it male because we want to be creative rather than nefarious). Thanks Cassandra. You’re right, a yellow worm? Ha ha. It would be not at ALL brown. Depending on your color dying skills Love it. Lol. 

If you’d like to send in some mail, please call it male, even though that’s exclusive, and even though we specially want it to be inclusive. 

And stay tuned, after the break we’ve got our legendary segment, that’s right, it’s ‘things that people think MAY be parsnip, but end up KNOT being parsnip. It’s the bit that’s exclusively inclusive, unless you’re.... say it with us... “KNOT a parsnip!!! (We mean not). 

Ponder it at least. At LEAST please.

Hello everyone. I am sorry to be the barer of bad news, but I was just handed a card with the news on it. And I am afraid it is official - it turns out that the thing gnats with slightly too much access to their local garden center's upper management Salvation Army fundraising dinner coffers would think if they fantasized about gaining slightly too LITTLE access, has been revealed, and is as follows...

'I'm not sure if TOO many gullies are named after ferns. Or not enough are named after bastard children of cave dwelling hypoglycemia smelling souls of leather shoes. But either way. STOP IT!'

Everyone here at the show wishes you the best in dealing with this news.

PS. We don't fucking know how the gnats got slightly too much access, do we look like we're in fucking in charge of coffers?

PPS. Sorry again. A gnat had a gun to our heads and made us say that.

PPPS. Still makes you think right? And that's something I think we can ALL think about. 

Cunningly Expetational Shrewdicitiy - A Poem

Her smile was wet...
Her soul slippery...
Her clothes made of porcupine inards...
Where the porcupine outards were who could tell?
In her?
Perhaps...
It would explain why she sporadically experienced uncontrollable seizures which in part manifested themselves in the haphazard shooting of blood covered porcupine quills from her neck...
But it wouldn't explain why anyone would dress in porcupine innards and consume porcupine outards, now would it?
Unless of course she was worried about blood covered porcupine quills shooting INTO her neck!
And who the hell isn't?
No one.
That's who...
Yes she was a shrewd one this one...
Not much of a looker...
A tad full of holes and covered in blood for my taste...
Perhaps that's just the price one must pay...
For a sweet, sweet porcupine innard outfit inspired wet smile.

Chapter Two. Innocuous. Unless you’re indignant. In which case SUPER oculus.

 
 Pinky-Von-Sox and the Cave of Squawking Mumbles

Chapter Two

It was a few months earlier when my best friend, Leaves, had originally asked me if I 'wanna go on an adventure with him'.

His voice was excited, warm, joyful, friendly, voicelely, seemingly defecating delight in a way which bathed the third eye, and yet I still knew exactly what he meant. This was Leaves. That meant by ‘an adventure’, Leaves meant he wanted to go out somewhere local do something violently unadventurous.

You see Leaves, despite being my best of bestest friends, is unfortunately just a really, really, super, really, super, totally, super, ridiculously really super boring guy. 

Named for the first thing his mother saw looking up after pushing him out of her, Leaves was born in a small tree house home in the suburb of Mexico City, in the city of Mexico City, in some unnamed country in Central America. With a Swedish mother and a pre-US State Era Alaskan father who himself had one Belarusian parent and One Sri-Lankan parent. They were part of a popular religion at the time, the Treechrisinas, a group who believed that Green Tree Frogs had sweet lives, shiny bodies, and were a fun color, and wanted in on it. 

Leaves parents had been sent to Mexico City by the Great Froggington, the religions leader, to live in the only two trees left in the entire urban sprawl, figuring 'we get those two trees we'll have a monopoly, and according to the board game The Game Of Life, having a monopoly will make you rich, and get you a $10 prize in a beauty contest, and what’s the point of craving shiny green skin if you cant win a prize?’

Yet Leaves wasn’t as enamored with tree life as his parents were. In fact from an early age he was mostly fascinated by a local dirt-runway airfield that was hidden behind those two trees. The planes were exciting, adventurous, flying, and planeyey, and seemed to betroth airborness in a way that soaked the fourth mind. 

‘Where do they go?’ he’d think. ‘Where do they come from?’ he’d wonder. ‘Why do my parents make me eat flies with my tongue?’ He’d ponder. ‘How come despite my exotic genetic background I look like just a regular Mexican, like a young Chong, or Cheech, which ever one was the Mexican one?’ He’d contemplate. ‘If I went somewhere on one of those planes could I be someone else, perhaps even anyone I want to be, like even some non-frog freak?’ He’d muse. 

One day he asked his parents these questions. It didn't go well. 

‘Your mother slaves in the kitchen all day to serve those flies for you, stop being so ungrateful you little shit!’ his dad screamed in response. 

So Leaves ran. Ran straight for the airfield. Found a small Cessna parked next to the Churro stand, and snuck onboard while it’s pilot flirted with a roller-skate wearing waitress. By the time the pilot had watched the object of his affection get caught in a gust of wind and roll away into a marsh, and climbed back into the cockpit, Leaves had crawled into a small crevice under the steering wheel, where he got trapped. 

Too embarrassed to say anything, seeing as his Spanish was affected by a Swedish accent his mother gave him (just like Cheech, or was it Chong with the Swedish accent?), that he thought made him sound like a French person doing a mocking impression of a Chilean trying to learn Norwegian, which was a popular Vaudevillian trope at the time. So Leaves just stayed put and stayed quiet. And for the next four years he stayed put and quiet here full time. 

It turned out that this particular Cessna was a drug, alcohol and exotic bird smuggling plane. And for the next four years Leaves would stay trapped in this tiny space as this plane circumvented Central America, South America, North America, and even dabbled a bit around West America, East America, South East America and America Samoa. 

Luckily for him the pilot of this plane, Juanosa, was addicted to buffalo chicken sauce so would buy wings by the bucket load, lick off all the sauce, and jam the left over chicken into the gap behind the steering wheel figuring that they'd eventually find their way out the landing gear, and he wouldn’t have to deal with parrots looking at him sitting next to a bucket of bird bones with fear and suspicion. And so that's what Leaves ate for four years, himself shoving the bones out through the landing gear whenever they arrived somewhere. He’d drink the water from the windshield sprayers to quench his thirst. And he'd shit and piss into the engines and imagine his excrement spraying over forests and gardens and fertilizing the world. It was a more than satisfying way to survive.

Sometimes Juanosa would call his girlfriend on the radio and describe what he was seeing, and Leaves would dream around these descriptions:

'I'm over the ocean, what do you think I'm seeing fucking goat herds?' 

Or,

'I'm over the desert, what to you think I'm seeing fucking whale herds?'

Or,

'I'm over the city, what do you think I'm seeing fucking goats herds fucking fucking whale herds? 

It all sounded magical to Leaves. 

Other times Leaves would catch the tiniest of glimpse of some remote airport runway or another as he'd be sticking chicken bones out through the landing gear gaps. 

It was a glorious, fantasy filled life. 

Tragically though, one day Juanosa discovered that you could just buy bottles of the buffalo chicken sauce he loved so hard at the grocery store, and he didn't actually need to buy the chicken parts, he could just smash the bottle onto his face and lick it right off himself, and Leaves food source disappeared.

So at the next stop he climbed out of his happy home, and found himself on a small Argentinian Island of Vanitjua. Temporarily blinded from seeing more than a crack of sunlight for the first time in years, he was kidnapped by Pirates, and by the time his eyes had adjusted to the sunlight the pirates had circumnavigated the globe and sold him to a Melbourne, Australia based Malaysian family who needed a new delivery boy for their Chinese restaurant. 

Eventually they would learn to love him as a real boy, and adopted him. And that's when I met him, delivering food to my house one day, and we became firm friends. 

He was mostly a great guy, but he did have flaws. Like for example he was always threatening to leave me. 

'I don't know, something inside me makes me yearn to see the world, I have no idea what or why, but I just do?' He'd say to me when we were hanging out. 

'Fine, go you dick, I don't need you' I'd reply, my feelings hurt. 

'Come on Pinky' he'd plead 'don't be like that, it's just a yearning I have, you know like your yearning to be funny?'

'Hey I don't yearn to be funny, I just am funny, and if you say something like that again I'll cut off your fanny! And see, that's funny, because a fanny is a vagina, and you don't actually have one, that's what makes it perfect comedy.'

'In some parts of the world a fanny is your bottom, and I do have one of those.'

'You are such a dick. Ok then just go, disappear. Apparently your yearnings are more important than me getting my Honey Chicken and Nasi-Goring whenever I want it' 

'Don’t worry Pinky, you know I’m not going yet, I'm not going anywhere till I can do it RIGHT, you know, something inside me makes me feel like I'm ready to travel in a way designed to really SEE stuff, I have no idea what it is, it's just a yearning, you know?'

'Like a monkey yearns to be a wrench?' I'd say, as another perfect joke, ‘that’ll burn him, BURN HIM LIKE A LOG I DON’T SEE EYE TO EYE WITH’ I’d think to myself manically, seeing as I’d compared his yearning to monkeys wanting to be wrenches, when in actual fact they often DON’T want to be wrenches. I often use hilarious burns like this to break the tension, and cover up that I am again not tipping Leaves for his latest food delivery. I don't want him to get enough money to afford his big travels of course; real friends keep them as close to them as they can.

Still the point is, obviously, Leaves is a boring friend. He'd made a pact with himself that he refused to go anywhere that wasn't in his new parent’s restaurant delivery area until he could get enough money to do it right. And Leaves’ pacts were usually tight, staunch, ironclad, pacty, seemingly leaking enchantment in a way that wet sponged the fifth cognizance. So within these few dozen blocks was where we spent all our time, and there is very little fun to be had in these few dozen blocks. 

Yep ‘wanna go on an adventure?’ Leaves asked. Who would ever have imagined that the boring thing he had planned would ultimately lead to something that would cause change. And this change would be in a really, really, super, really, super, totally, super, ridiculously really super amazing way! And this amazing thing would change the entire world. Superly. Even a fearful and suspicious looking parrot hostage would tell you that.

Chapter One - Inaudible. Unless you're close. In which case SUPER audible.

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Pinky-Von-Sox and the Cave of Squawking Mumbles

Chapter One

I climbed over the precipice. And what a precipice it was. Angular. Rugged. Toned. Gaping. Rocky. Precipiceyey. Seemingly sweating out rich oils that made it glisten in the sun. I could barely take my eyes off it. I don't know if you people know just how much diversity in there is from precipice to precipice, but it's a lot, and I've seen a precipice or two in my day. So I know a good one when I see it. And this precipice was magnificent. 

So magnificent that I didn't even notice that Leaves had found the entrance to the cave. Yes THE cave. The very cave that we were seeking. A cave so sought out that thousands before us had sought to seek it for eons. And we had discovered it. 

By the time I looked up Leaves had begun to make gross 'entrance' jokes at my expense knowing that I wasn't really paying attention. If Leaves wasn’t my best friend and companion on what had already been a monumental journey, I may well have hurled him off the precipice for the disgusting joke he had concluded with:

‘What’s the difference between Pinky-Von-Sox and an Entrance? When you see an Entrance you DON’T laugh if it’s stepped in poo’. 

Ok. So maybe I’ll admit that this joke was actually hilarious. I mean how could an entrance step in poo? For starters I don’t think they even MAKE shoes in entrance sizes. Still the joke was at my expense, and when I am burned I have to have retribution. 

‘Hey check it out, a rock’ I was about to yell at Leaves. But here is the thing. The place I was planning to point was not going to be a place where a rock was. So he would look and realize that he’d been tricked ‘That’ll burn him, BURN HIM LIKE A WITCH!’ I thought to myself manically. 

My plan was all set to go, I just had to find a spot on this rocky cliff edge on the side of this rocky mountain without a rock, which turned out to be actually slightly challenging, and before I’d succeeded, I'd too seen the cave entrance.  

And Wow. What an entrance. It was Rangy. Jagged. Pointy. Cavernous. Rock-strewn. Entranceyey. Seemingly sucking in rich oils that made it absorb the sun. This was definitely IT. The Legend. The mystery. The myth. The folklore. This was the very entrance that had inspired all those academic studies, witty single panel cartoons and even folk songs. But until now no one was even sure that it truly existed. 

However the engraving on the plaque could not have been more clear: 

WELCOME: YOU HAVE REACHED THE CAVE OF SILENCE SO SILENT THAT IT SQUAWKS LOUDLY LIKE A FREIGHT TRAIN OR PERHAPS EVEN SOME SORT OF HEAVY MACHINERY LIKE A GIANT ROBOTIC LAVE. WAIT A LAVE IS A THING RIGHT? THEY SHAVE WOOD AND STUFF? THAT’S PRETTY COOL. WELL THIS ROBOTIC LAVE SOUND IS SO LOUD THAT IT’S LIKE A SQUAWK ONLY THIS SQUAWK IS SILENT LIKE A WHISPER. A MUMBLED WHISPER.

Wow. This was the cave known in The Secret Society of Seekers simply as - The Cave Of Squawking Mumbles. And we had discovered it. 

I couldn't help but break out into song. Somehow remembering the lyrics to Bob Dylan's classic folk song of the folklore of the fossils apparently inside here. I'm sure you all know the one...

'Apparently there may be fossils in that cave

And fossils are becoming all of the rage

Especially when you've got fossil plague

Maybe you should scrape it off with a Lave

Yep it's the cave of Squawking Mumbles

I bet if you found it you’d get tummy rumbles

If you capture its secrets don’t get the fumbles

That’s why I never trust precious artifacts to idiotic bumbles’

'Yep, no wonder Dylan won a Nobel Prize for literature' I thought to myself after I sung it. But if he won a Nobel for singing about this cave, then what was I going to get for being the first to finally discover it? 

I looked over at Leaves. I imagined myself cloaked in glory. Then I looked back at Leaves. Only one of us could be the first man inside.

‘Hey Leaves, look, a rock’ I yelled while pointing. Leaves lit up with the sort of glow that can ONLY come from finding a rock on a mountain, and like a dog chasing a stick, he jauntily skipped over to play with it. 

Sure I had actually pointed at a rock. This was no time for trickery, even if said trickery would earn a sweet burn. There was more at stake.

Leaves began to happily rub his face on the rock, claiming ownership, like a cat rubbing its face on the leg of its feeder. And as Leave's cheeks began to rip up and secrete blood, I slowly walked towards the entrance. 

So slowly that it was fast, fast like a freight train, or maybe some sort of fast machinery, like a robotic tree trunk flinging catapult. That’s a thing right? Flinging wood and stuff. That’s pretty cool. Only this flinging tree speed was slow. So slow it was like a whisper. A mumbled whisper. 

And then, after just an eon of a tiny amount of time... I was inside. 

And inside I was about to discover secrets that would literally change the way literally every human thinks about literally everything.

And yet I was to regret being the first man inside. 

Because it turned out the entrance HAD stepped in poo. 

Gross poo. 

Yuck.